


Give Me a Breath From the Breathing

by patster223



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Music, Shatterdome Atlanta 2015 Fanfic Slam, faith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patster223/pseuds/patster223
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, a ranger and a black market dealer walk into a kaiju cultist church. No, it's not a joke. <em>No</em>, it's not a crisis of faith or anything like that either. </p><p>For Chuck, it's just a place to seek some solace, so close to the end of the world.</p><p>Written for the Shatterdome Atlanta 2015 fic slam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me a Breath From the Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic for the Shatterdome Atlanta 2015 fic slam (where it got Best In Show! yaaay). My theme was music, my setting was the Boneslums, and my characters were Chuck Hansen and Hannibal Chau -- a bit of an unlikely duo, but one that turned out to be a joy to write. The fic title is from the song Hammers and Strings by Jack's Mannequin.

The man wearing gold-tipped shoes takes _one_ look at Chuck, lowers his glasses like he _knows_ him or something, and asks, “What the hell’s a kid ranger doing dicking around _this_ place?”

It’s a fair question. Chuck and this man – the bastard bold enough to wear gold-tipped shoes around the _Boneslums_ – hardly fit in amongst the robed followers praying throughout the church.

The kaiju _cultist_ church. Chuck’s dad would kill him if he knew he was here – if he even notices that Chuck’s gone.

“ _I’m_ minding my own business. How about yourself?” Chuck asks.

The man smirks and Chuck can already tell – this guy isn’t taking him seriously. Some people look at Chuck and see _Jaeger pilot_ , some people look at him and think _idiot kid._ This man seems to fall into the latter category.

Join the club.

And yet for some reason, the man answers Chuck’s question as if it were a genuine one.

“The smell,” the man says. “These churches always smell the same: damp wood, lingering smoke, bone. Makes it a good place to relax – if you can get over the fact that you’re sitting smack dab in the middle of a skeleton.”

Chuck sniffs, wrinkles his nose. Just smells like incense and mildew to him.

“I didn’t come here to smell dirty old bones,” he says.

“Then why bother? Ranger in a cultist church: you’re a media nightmare waiting to happen.”

The man’s statement has the potential to be a threat – but it’s not one, not quite. And why would it be? Soon-to-be-unemployed Jaeger pilots don’t exactly make great blackmail material.

Chuck shakes his head. Despite this man’s sliminess, Chuck finds that he doesn’t exactly _mind_ the guy. At least he’s being straight with him.

“Like you said: if you can look past the morons and bones, it’s a relaxing enough place,” Chuck says. “I just come here for the music.”

Religious buildings – even those owned by cultists – tend to have _wonderful_ music. They echo with the sort of humming, pounding, _singing_ hymns that reverberate through Chuck’s bones. The songs don’t have discernible lyrics or meaning – not to Chuck anyway. To him, it’s just a wall of sound to be _lost_ in.

Nothing on Chuck’s iPod has been able to do _quite_ the same since he arrived in Hong Kong.

“Of course,” the man says. “Nothing soothes the soul like songs about the apocalypse.”

Chuck rolls his eyes. As if he needs to explain himself. He just finds the damn music relaxing, okay?

“Better than the crap my dad’s been playing,” he mutters.

The man snorts. His laugh is too loud, inappropriate amongst the murmuring music that echoes throughout the church.

And then he sobers, leans his elbows against the top of the pew and looks to the bones that surround them.

“You know,” the man continues. “I’ve been coming here more and more often with each attack. Not even religious – it just happens anyway. I come here every week to smell this stinking _bone carcass._ Just goes to show: nothing brings people to a church faster than the end of the world trying to bite your ass.”

“The world isn’t going to end,” Chuck says. “We’ve got a plan.”

“Oh yeah? Not sure how I feel about this plan of yours, if it’s what’s making you hide out here of all places.”

“The plan _will_ work.”

Chuck closes his eyes, listens to chimes and chants and bells. This kind of music, church music – it’s meant to inspire _belief._ It’s _so_ close to what Chuck needs – but in the end, belief isn’t the problem, not really. Chuck doesn’t know much about faith, but he has _absolute_ belief that they won’t let the world end.

He just…he just wonders what the cost will be, sometimes.

“Very soon, I’m going on what is probably a suicide mission,” Chuck says. “I don’t want to die, and I don’t really _believe_ that I can die, but…”

“But you _know_ that you can.”

“Yeah,” Chuck sighs. “It’s kind of shit.”

The man raises an eyebrow, stands up. “War _is_ shit. Well, for most people anyway. Decent enough reason to come here though.”

Chuck’s eyes are still closed, so he hears rather than sees the man leave. The clicking of gold-tipped shoes accompanies fading wind chimes and soft hymns. Chuck takes a deep breath, inhales dust and wood polish – and breathes and breathes again to the beat of that pained, hopeful music.


End file.
